You may sleep now.
You may sleep and dream you are sleeping,
like opposing mirrors
that repeat themselves into oblivion.
Sleep now. Sleep. And the piano will strike
a tune that isn’t flat. And the guitar, stashed
under the bed beside socks
that aren’t yours, will begin to strum
chords that lull the dark into a sleepier dark.
Sleep. Sleep now. Sleep yourself out
of existence. Sleep until your mother
sits at the foot of your bed
alive again, stroking your ankles, humming
lullabies for the living. Sleep. Sleep
without fear of waking. Sleep
as if all of tomorrow’s
expected failures are tucked
far away from the poets and story-tellers,
buried deep within the pages
of the future’s purple fiction.
Sleep.
You don’t need permission.
Drape your dress across the wingback chair.
Leave your shoes by the closet door.
Put these lines away and let yourself pass away,
so far away
that when the coffeepot pulls you into the morning
and you slide from beneath the sheets
for that first cup,
the bitter roast touches your tongue
as if anointing
as if rolling away the stone to reveal
yesterday’s tomb is empty.
Innerexposure 